26 months of Iraq are under the treads of these soles. Not all my doing, but a less than half contribution for sure. They are to the near point of hideous, but in that John Wayne weathered kind of way. The glue, and re-glue is failing, leaving the once tight rubber bottoms, now moving freely with every step. The inside of the boots, more destroyed than the outside, even that chip and gash on the right toe. They smell bad, but with all the right. Sweaty'd and bloody'd at one point or another.
Like I said, they were not mine to begin with. They were a sight for sore eyes when I got them. Leather faded and rubbed smooth in places. Tattered and nearly torn in others. Brian Reed bequeathed them before he left our unit, and he put them in good hands. He had worn them during his deployment the year and a half before. 15 months in Samarra, under a .50 cal, on a platform, or captured terrorist, in the confines of a humvee. Kicking or stomping.
The stories of where and what had been seen and done in those boots, to many to learn. I took them, not knowing the significance of the boots I'd be stepping into. Not just figuratively. Already worn in and comfortable to the feet, they were a comfortable blessing to the feet. Perhaps slightly past their prime, but they still had a few steps left in them.
Walking around, one day to the next, the boots learning new stories and seeing new sights. Their experience growing, marked one gash or chip of rubber here or there. Each having a small story, but a big stride. The connotations of good times and bad ones surging through every loop of the tie. Every lace up, conforming to foot, preparing for mission with the reliance all on the shoulders of my boots. Every lace down and untie the relief of a job well done, or a tough day over. Appreciated, but neglected, on their side or across the room until the morn. Until next year.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Dream Weaving
It's weird, these days, to admit even to myself what is wrong with me. It's probably one of the hardest things to do in life. We all think we are perfect, and we rarely reflect on our own shortcomings. It's too easy to make excuses that qualify why we haven't accomplished what we have all set out to do. I have been observing myself as best as possible. Recognizing when I lie to get what I want, and to do all of the selfish things that we all want to do.
What self realizations have I discovered that I am willing to admit? We all know that we have things wrong with us, but we all too often ignore what we shouldn't. We too many times allow ourselves alibis. We don't truly care for other people. Most of our decisions focus around ourselves. The worst part is we act like that's not the case. We volunteer our hours and help others, but too what happiness to we owe the credit of these achievements: Our own. We do this to make ourselves feel good. And we do, and the bi-product is relevant but irrelevant. We sign a check and roll up some sleeves, but we don't really do any of that for mankind. We do it for ourselves. Because we don't want to be that person that doesn't care about others. We aren't selfless. If you think you're selfless, you should consider joining the military.
We are selfish. All of us. We have to be, it's human nature. We stop caring about others the second that we pretend to start too. There's nothing wrong with that though. There is nothing wrong with being selfish. That's what we have to realize. That's what we have to accept. Otherwise you end up like me, making decisions for my own life based on how it will effect the people around me. If it will make them happy, then I will do it. It's not a good thing though. I'm helping you out at my own expense. But haven't I always been the clown who's crying on the inside? I've always been willing to sacrifice myself for the joy of others. Not many people are like that, and where that seems not selfish, and selfless, it simply is not. It is selfish. It is what makes me happy. To have others around me have more joy than I myself do.
How do I fix that? How do I take the steps to transform myself to make those selfish decisions that don't just make me feel happy about myself that I helped others out, but that I feel happy about making decisions for myself.
My sister tells me a lot of interesting stuff. She's always been smart and capable of tons of accomplishment. She tells me that Hitler used to read a book by a guy, and of course I don't remember his name, but this guys book had a very interesting point about how we are self detrimental, that we don't achieve all that we can because we care too much for morals and ethics, which are essentially just ideas that have been created by people. That you have to create your own ethics and morals that base solely around your best interests, and nobody elses. This philosopher guy, whoever he was, he was an asshole, but he was also smart.
I've been having strange dreams. I'm at a very emotional state in my life and a lot of it I have yet to figure out. I'm in and out of love with an ex and wish the settings, the conditions were different so I could get a true feel for what was going to happen. I'm going to not be with my family again for Christmas, and I missed Thanksgiving too. Not that I don't have wonderful support of my adopted families here in North Carolina, but to not be with my family on such big family events does take the wind out of my sails a little. All of this, the stress of being on a recall to go anywhere in the world at a moments notice, it all has mounted. The dreams are very random and as the best Internet search could produce, tells me that the kinds of dreams I'm having are a positive, even if that's not the way it makes me feel.
I dreamt I was in Afghanistan. Very vivid too. I was on a helicopter to who knows where and listening to a radio or someone saying something about how dangerous of a place we were going was. How many guys the previous unit had lost. I thought of my friend KC and his tour, and of course he was in the bird with me. My dream jumped to me not making it to his going away from Fort Bragg party and I instantly got sick with regret. The bird landed, or some how I was on the ground smoking a cigarette or just standing in a circle with a few other guys. It seemed normal then, but strange now. The next thing I knew we were patrolling, like a thousand others I had been on. I was thinking to myself how I didn't know the mission and that I was blaming the PSG for not filling us in on what was going on. I asked someone what we were doing and where we were going. I got the typical Army response, which could've been; shut up, who knows, or that overly used facial expression of, huh? I followed the man in front of me. He passed an ice cream truck on the right hand side. I started to go around it on the left. As I neared the back, and the Afghan women and children who stood close, I noticed what appeared to be a small land mine in the ground. I looked at it closer and right as I exposed myself to the left flank of the truck. Awaiting me was an Afghan man with a grenade. He lurched at me holding the grenade out. I frantically back petalled away and fired my M4 at him. He threw the grenade and it bounced around on my chest and finally landed at my feet. My vision went white and my hearing went numb. I awoke on the couch.
That was a few nights ago. It's strange that when I awoke, I didn't feel any anxiety, any kind of fear for my life. I had just accepted that I died. Not as any kind of hero. Not jumping on a grenade to save my buddies, but just a normal way to have died in this war. Last nights dream was even more weird.
It was less vivid, and more alarming. I saw tombstones of 18 people, and they were more of a futuristic look. I was with the ghost or perhaps a person going past them on some sort of ride. We talked about what I didn't know, but kept getting flashes of a dead person in a ditch or perhaps just the woods. I couldn't make out their face as there body was naked, and covered in dirt. I kept talking to the person and couldn't decipher what it was about. The body kept flashing in my head, and I read the names on the tombstones. I saw mine and then the body was clear. It was me. I saw that I had died, I saw my tombstone. I woke up from it I'm sure, but thought only about it the rest of the night I slept. It was weird, and strange, and the experts say that it's a good thing. That dying in a dream is good. That it symbolizes inner-changes and transformation.
I hope that's true, that I am changing, that I am improving. I hope that I can get through this, with all that I've learned. I have to continue to grind things out and try to not worry about how things will be, and just worry about how I will get to where I want to be.
What self realizations have I discovered that I am willing to admit? We all know that we have things wrong with us, but we all too often ignore what we shouldn't. We too many times allow ourselves alibis. We don't truly care for other people. Most of our decisions focus around ourselves. The worst part is we act like that's not the case. We volunteer our hours and help others, but too what happiness to we owe the credit of these achievements: Our own. We do this to make ourselves feel good. And we do, and the bi-product is relevant but irrelevant. We sign a check and roll up some sleeves, but we don't really do any of that for mankind. We do it for ourselves. Because we don't want to be that person that doesn't care about others. We aren't selfless. If you think you're selfless, you should consider joining the military.
We are selfish. All of us. We have to be, it's human nature. We stop caring about others the second that we pretend to start too. There's nothing wrong with that though. There is nothing wrong with being selfish. That's what we have to realize. That's what we have to accept. Otherwise you end up like me, making decisions for my own life based on how it will effect the people around me. If it will make them happy, then I will do it. It's not a good thing though. I'm helping you out at my own expense. But haven't I always been the clown who's crying on the inside? I've always been willing to sacrifice myself for the joy of others. Not many people are like that, and where that seems not selfish, and selfless, it simply is not. It is selfish. It is what makes me happy. To have others around me have more joy than I myself do.
How do I fix that? How do I take the steps to transform myself to make those selfish decisions that don't just make me feel happy about myself that I helped others out, but that I feel happy about making decisions for myself.
My sister tells me a lot of interesting stuff. She's always been smart and capable of tons of accomplishment. She tells me that Hitler used to read a book by a guy, and of course I don't remember his name, but this guys book had a very interesting point about how we are self detrimental, that we don't achieve all that we can because we care too much for morals and ethics, which are essentially just ideas that have been created by people. That you have to create your own ethics and morals that base solely around your best interests, and nobody elses. This philosopher guy, whoever he was, he was an asshole, but he was also smart.
I've been having strange dreams. I'm at a very emotional state in my life and a lot of it I have yet to figure out. I'm in and out of love with an ex and wish the settings, the conditions were different so I could get a true feel for what was going to happen. I'm going to not be with my family again for Christmas, and I missed Thanksgiving too. Not that I don't have wonderful support of my adopted families here in North Carolina, but to not be with my family on such big family events does take the wind out of my sails a little. All of this, the stress of being on a recall to go anywhere in the world at a moments notice, it all has mounted. The dreams are very random and as the best Internet search could produce, tells me that the kinds of dreams I'm having are a positive, even if that's not the way it makes me feel.
I dreamt I was in Afghanistan. Very vivid too. I was on a helicopter to who knows where and listening to a radio or someone saying something about how dangerous of a place we were going was. How many guys the previous unit had lost. I thought of my friend KC and his tour, and of course he was in the bird with me. My dream jumped to me not making it to his going away from Fort Bragg party and I instantly got sick with regret. The bird landed, or some how I was on the ground smoking a cigarette or just standing in a circle with a few other guys. It seemed normal then, but strange now. The next thing I knew we were patrolling, like a thousand others I had been on. I was thinking to myself how I didn't know the mission and that I was blaming the PSG for not filling us in on what was going on. I asked someone what we were doing and where we were going. I got the typical Army response, which could've been; shut up, who knows, or that overly used facial expression of, huh? I followed the man in front of me. He passed an ice cream truck on the right hand side. I started to go around it on the left. As I neared the back, and the Afghan women and children who stood close, I noticed what appeared to be a small land mine in the ground. I looked at it closer and right as I exposed myself to the left flank of the truck. Awaiting me was an Afghan man with a grenade. He lurched at me holding the grenade out. I frantically back petalled away and fired my M4 at him. He threw the grenade and it bounced around on my chest and finally landed at my feet. My vision went white and my hearing went numb. I awoke on the couch.
That was a few nights ago. It's strange that when I awoke, I didn't feel any anxiety, any kind of fear for my life. I had just accepted that I died. Not as any kind of hero. Not jumping on a grenade to save my buddies, but just a normal way to have died in this war. Last nights dream was even more weird.
It was less vivid, and more alarming. I saw tombstones of 18 people, and they were more of a futuristic look. I was with the ghost or perhaps a person going past them on some sort of ride. We talked about what I didn't know, but kept getting flashes of a dead person in a ditch or perhaps just the woods. I couldn't make out their face as there body was naked, and covered in dirt. I kept talking to the person and couldn't decipher what it was about. The body kept flashing in my head, and I read the names on the tombstones. I saw mine and then the body was clear. It was me. I saw that I had died, I saw my tombstone. I woke up from it I'm sure, but thought only about it the rest of the night I slept. It was weird, and strange, and the experts say that it's a good thing. That dying in a dream is good. That it symbolizes inner-changes and transformation.
I hope that's true, that I am changing, that I am improving. I hope that I can get through this, with all that I've learned. I have to continue to grind things out and try to not worry about how things will be, and just worry about how I will get to where I want to be.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
3 A.M. Talks With Myself
The break is certainly well over due. It's not far away, but seems further than ever. My paint is chipping and peeling with ease. I feel underwater. My vision fades. I wake up from nightmare to live one. Everyday is worse than office space.
The coffee doesn't wake me, and the ambien doesn't put me to sleep. I get anxious. My palms sweat, my beard grows, my alarm chirps, my lights work. I feel nothing but sorrow on some days, and other days are the bad ones. I've always been able to make the ones around me happy, the clown who cries on the inside. I like the sunrises better than sunsets, but like to sleep past them both better.
The cool air is a change, and the humidity is about all that makes it unbearable. I become more and more immune to this rank and disgusting virus. It only makes me sick to think about when I have the time to. My brain hurts more at night than in the morning, and at least it makes the drive to work bearable. I try and find positives here and there, but eventually subject myself to the major populace thinking and bask in the glory of my own suffering. Perhaps just to tell you I had it worse.
Whatever it is, the mood swings, the thoughts, the logical paths, conclusions, reports that I file with myself; well they just aren't going to stop any time soon. Like Minnesota would be a could term to describe how I feel. Escapes to cabinesque places help me to forget, but the rude awakening Monday morning is almost too much to handle on some days. This week was a rough one, and if I had had today off, I could've handled it a whole lot better.
I got tired of the third grade teacher talks 15 minutes before they even happened, and I told myself what I've always told myself about situations that have no fix, and that's that eventually the pain, the suffering, the torment: it all ends.
The ball is out of my court in almost every aspect of my life. To have no control, to have no control in what you want, to have no control in choosing some basic freedoms. To have no control is to be a slave. A slave to work, a slave to the man, a slave to love, a slave. A slave is dire. And most dire situations, well we hope they all come to an end. Surely they must.
Fears Repress
Sitting here, the cloud just outside the window, I feel tired and worried. The lights cast their most romantic lighting they can produce. Helped by the thick air, they cause more effect than normal. It's surreal. My heart beats and my head thinks too much. I worry about all the decisions I have made, and those I have yet too. I think about all the decisions you will make, and the ones you already have. My heart beats into my stomach making me sick. I miss you.
I worry and think about my bed. The sheets wrinkled and unmade, marked and stained with the decisions I've made. I look the trash and hope that what I might have thrown away isn't already at the dump. The music only sways me to believe in my own drama, and it swells with every worried heart beat.
The grains of sand have stopped dropping, though I'm not sure whether it's just jammed and stuck in the top, or if it's just all ran out. I argue with myself about how stupid I can be sometimes, and it doesn't make me feel very good about who I am, or who I was. I try not too let the heart cause my head more pain, and think of only who I want to be.
I'm in the bathroom, but not sure how I've gotten there or how long I've been looking at myself in the mirror. I splash water on my face and can't tell if it was warm or cold. My face feels hot and could be bleeding the red at it's surface. The tears don't cool it down and I'm confused. Am I crying for myself or for you. The man in the mirror doesn't answer, but looks at me with pity. I suck in the tears, the snot and accept what I have done. The ship hasn't quite set sail, but it feels like the dock is further away. I don't know what to do about it. I feel stuck, and sad, and damn... I miss you. I miss knowing that you are there with me. I miss knowing that you love me. I wish I knew for sure.
The feeling might hurt more, and maybe I deserve it. They say, they say, but I don't believe it. And how could you just let it walk away. What if it doesn't come back. That's not a decision I can live with, and the one that got me here isn't one that I can either. Sometimes I don't peel back all my layers and let you in. I need, I want, I am. Sorry for this and sorry for that, and nothing I say fixes all under the hat. I reach down and struggle days, or even weeks to pick myself up off the floor. How can I expect to explain myself to you if I can't even explain myself to myself.
I feel sick. Everyday that goes by; it eats me. It eats at me. I struggle to breath like jumping in cold water. The wind is knocked out from me and I don't want it to return. Not unless it comes with the warmth I feel from you. I didn't thank you enough, or appreciate all that you've done. You might have saved my life, and instead of pulling you closer, I pushed you further away. Warmth in your eyes, comfort in your smile. Your touch, I'm crazy for it. I miss it. I miss you. I love you.
I worry and think about my bed. The sheets wrinkled and unmade, marked and stained with the decisions I've made. I look the trash and hope that what I might have thrown away isn't already at the dump. The music only sways me to believe in my own drama, and it swells with every worried heart beat.
The grains of sand have stopped dropping, though I'm not sure whether it's just jammed and stuck in the top, or if it's just all ran out. I argue with myself about how stupid I can be sometimes, and it doesn't make me feel very good about who I am, or who I was. I try not too let the heart cause my head more pain, and think of only who I want to be.
I'm in the bathroom, but not sure how I've gotten there or how long I've been looking at myself in the mirror. I splash water on my face and can't tell if it was warm or cold. My face feels hot and could be bleeding the red at it's surface. The tears don't cool it down and I'm confused. Am I crying for myself or for you. The man in the mirror doesn't answer, but looks at me with pity. I suck in the tears, the snot and accept what I have done. The ship hasn't quite set sail, but it feels like the dock is further away. I don't know what to do about it. I feel stuck, and sad, and damn... I miss you. I miss knowing that you are there with me. I miss knowing that you love me. I wish I knew for sure.
The feeling might hurt more, and maybe I deserve it. They say, they say, but I don't believe it. And how could you just let it walk away. What if it doesn't come back. That's not a decision I can live with, and the one that got me here isn't one that I can either. Sometimes I don't peel back all my layers and let you in. I need, I want, I am. Sorry for this and sorry for that, and nothing I say fixes all under the hat. I reach down and struggle days, or even weeks to pick myself up off the floor. How can I expect to explain myself to you if I can't even explain myself to myself.
I feel sick. Everyday that goes by; it eats me. It eats at me. I struggle to breath like jumping in cold water. The wind is knocked out from me and I don't want it to return. Not unless it comes with the warmth I feel from you. I didn't thank you enough, or appreciate all that you've done. You might have saved my life, and instead of pulling you closer, I pushed you further away. Warmth in your eyes, comfort in your smile. Your touch, I'm crazy for it. I miss it. I miss you. I love you.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Book Intrigue... Can I Do It?
He stared in the rear view, still making sure he was alone. He didn't feel alone, but no headlights in the dimming evening light reassured him to not trust his gut. He checked the mirror again and accelerated. The road had been swinging left and right, and rolling cresting over wave after wave in the near countryside. The trees were starting to lessen and he didn't seem to have the same comfort as city driving as his diversity of exits had turned to two; straight ahead or back.
He rolled down the window and felt the cool air playfully frolic with his hair. He adjusted the mirror in an attempt to relax. He couldn't. His heart had been pounding through his ears and even cut out the REM that was pool-hall music loud. He sat back a little as he came over the hill, exposing the entire horizon. It was magnificent he thought, but couldn't concentrate on the idea. He had far too much to think about after the events that had only happened that morning.
He could still smell the blood. The gun powder still sweetly stinging his nostrils. He un-buttoned the top button just behind his tie which he had still yet to loosen. He knew he'd have to stop and get gas soon, but didn't want to. He was headed north, not to anywhere in particular, but hopefully somewhere quiet. Somewhere to collect his thoughts and consider his options.
He unbuckled and unholstered his sidearm. It was lighter than it's normal security of weight, but he wasn't sure how many rounds he had fired from it. A fog in his memory he had never felt before. He placed it on the dash and pulled his tie with a quick smooth motion, unraveling it perfectly limp into his hand. He tossed it towards the backseat and began to wonder how long it had been since he started driving. He had barely moved and was finally starting to regain some composure. He checked the rear view mirror again.
This time he feared his luck had run out.
He rolled down the window and felt the cool air playfully frolic with his hair. He adjusted the mirror in an attempt to relax. He couldn't. His heart had been pounding through his ears and even cut out the REM that was pool-hall music loud. He sat back a little as he came over the hill, exposing the entire horizon. It was magnificent he thought, but couldn't concentrate on the idea. He had far too much to think about after the events that had only happened that morning.
He could still smell the blood. The gun powder still sweetly stinging his nostrils. He un-buttoned the top button just behind his tie which he had still yet to loosen. He knew he'd have to stop and get gas soon, but didn't want to. He was headed north, not to anywhere in particular, but hopefully somewhere quiet. Somewhere to collect his thoughts and consider his options.
He unbuckled and unholstered his sidearm. It was lighter than it's normal security of weight, but he wasn't sure how many rounds he had fired from it. A fog in his memory he had never felt before. He placed it on the dash and pulled his tie with a quick smooth motion, unraveling it perfectly limp into his hand. He tossed it towards the backseat and began to wonder how long it had been since he started driving. He had barely moved and was finally starting to regain some composure. He checked the rear view mirror again.
This time he feared his luck had run out.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Perfectly Painted Drive
Reality had escaped to surrealism and he was happily lost in it. The sun setting on the horizon, finding a perfect spot to cozy down between the trees. Using the mirror of the lake to display it's beautiful sleeping tradition. Settling in around it all the colors of the suns best friends. The artist and his clouds. His pallet must have been full of every color, not sparing a single ounce of effort or beauty for another sunset. Some clouds manicured to perfection by the greatest cake designers. Others to imperfection by the clumsy touch of amateurs.
He continued to stream down the road, all worries a minute behind. The metal guard rails had turned to wooden ones, and then finally disappeared. That uplifting feeling kept hitting him bluntly and with the same relief and tranquility of the woods. The sun chose it's moments and continued to wink through the trees. He could see the fog rolling in on the bridge over the lake ahead. It's entrance guarded by tall trees, reaching their arms wide and far to obscure the entrance. The view came more quickly than anticipated, and was gone even quicker. The sun displayed itself in all of it's glory. He took a deep breath but couldn't regain all that had been taken from him. The relief of the fog, the swell of the music, the whole picture directly perfectly and with seamless transition.
Life's circle had just been full, but only for that second. The music died down, and went from one symphony to another. The bridge disappeared in the rear view mirror, and too closely paralleled life's cycle for the him. He focused on the shift of the car, the hum of the tires and the running road ahead and his role in catching it. He looked toward the next curve, the unknown, the possible. He desired it more, the idea of better. The geese accompanied him, a new wing man, shadowing the car now in the near absence of the suns rays, as it had finally retired it's playful game. He turned the knob and allowed the melody to envelop him. He pressed the gas a little harder and his hands followed suit, tight around the wheel. He was unsure of the reality of it all. Was it all a dream? If it was, he did not want to believe it. The squeezing of his vision gripped tighter as he gazed forward, the future, the excitement of the endless pursuit of the road in front. He looked again for the sun. It had vanished. It's cat and mouse game with him was finally over.
The speed increased. His breath steadied. Focused on the perfection in the imperfect world, the driver behind the wheel smiled.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Civility, Our Final Stand
I no longer feel all alone. Rutgers New York of all places has joined me on this bus that seems to be going nowhere. HLN even reported it. Comforting and warm, like the light on is all it feels like. Civility they call it. Squelching the fires of rudeness, which has all too recently been scorching the earth, humanity.
Today, sitting in the barber chair, a now stronger tradition on Sunday's than Church, or even Football, I saw the awe-striking developments with my beloved Robin Meade. Apparently I'm not the only one who has not just noticed the rapid decline of how we treat each other in public, but I'm not the only one who cares to do something about it. Rutgers University is implementing a program to help people become more aware of their actions. Decrease their rudeness and help at least a small section of this world return to grandeur days of compassion and consideration of those who surround us, ie. you and I.
The idea that we can return to a more civil society is certainly daunting. In recent years, with technology and convenience having such an effect on a day to day lifestyles, it's hard to imagine putting any effort into being kinder and more caring for one another, let alone strangers, and even with the possibility of actually helping one another out. It's certainly not a popular idea.
Shows on television that the youth of our nation watch so emphatically whether to live by or make fun of still have such an irrefutable effect on the way we view acceptable across society. We have so called "icons" who are nothing but detrimental to society and feel like no rules apply to them based on our praise and their holiness because of that. The Jersey Shore crew, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan. These are individuals that should not even be considered people. They give nothing to society. They have no positive affluence on the way Americans should live their lives. And yet, we praise and prod and encourage this kind of behavior. Some even live to be exactly the same.
To stop this cascading, rolling, picking up steam, time bomb, avalanche is not going to be easy. It's hard to imagine and I doubt very highly that we've allowed that many stupid people, that verge of idiocracy to creep so heavily into the lead train of thought for our nation. I know that's not the majority of how people think or want to act, or even treat others. But the majority is silent and bending, and willing to let the minority groups benefit as a whole, willing to suffer for the better of the few than the better of the many. California is getting rid of metal baseball bats in High School Baseball because of one instance where a kid was killed by a line drive.
Our fore-fathers are rolling in their graves. We created a society, a government that was for the people. The majority of people. Not to make a rule for every exception, to protect every single person, but to protect what is best for everybody. If we stopped doing things, made it illegal, mitigated all the risks in everything that you could do that you could possibly die doing; what could you do? Live in a plastic bubble that never moved.
So how do you reverse the flux? How do you get the water back in the tank, stop the flush. Society is headed for a terrible demise in this country if we don't start doing something now. Eliminate the extremists on both the left and the right could considerably help. The tea party'ers, the Koran burners, the soccer moms, and liberals? As nice as it would be to Lord of the Flies them onto an island, we have to use more ethical means of extermination. Make the voice of the many what it should always be. Loud. Call shotgun, and driver too. Get out of the backseat and be heard. We let the voice of the few out ring the voice of the many.
It's time to start singing.
Today, sitting in the barber chair, a now stronger tradition on Sunday's than Church, or even Football, I saw the awe-striking developments with my beloved Robin Meade. Apparently I'm not the only one who has not just noticed the rapid decline of how we treat each other in public, but I'm not the only one who cares to do something about it. Rutgers University is implementing a program to help people become more aware of their actions. Decrease their rudeness and help at least a small section of this world return to grandeur days of compassion and consideration of those who surround us, ie. you and I.
The idea that we can return to a more civil society is certainly daunting. In recent years, with technology and convenience having such an effect on a day to day lifestyles, it's hard to imagine putting any effort into being kinder and more caring for one another, let alone strangers, and even with the possibility of actually helping one another out. It's certainly not a popular idea.
Shows on television that the youth of our nation watch so emphatically whether to live by or make fun of still have such an irrefutable effect on the way we view acceptable across society. We have so called "icons" who are nothing but detrimental to society and feel like no rules apply to them based on our praise and their holiness because of that. The Jersey Shore crew, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan. These are individuals that should not even be considered people. They give nothing to society. They have no positive affluence on the way Americans should live their lives. And yet, we praise and prod and encourage this kind of behavior. Some even live to be exactly the same.
To stop this cascading, rolling, picking up steam, time bomb, avalanche is not going to be easy. It's hard to imagine and I doubt very highly that we've allowed that many stupid people, that verge of idiocracy to creep so heavily into the lead train of thought for our nation. I know that's not the majority of how people think or want to act, or even treat others. But the majority is silent and bending, and willing to let the minority groups benefit as a whole, willing to suffer for the better of the few than the better of the many. California is getting rid of metal baseball bats in High School Baseball because of one instance where a kid was killed by a line drive.
Our fore-fathers are rolling in their graves. We created a society, a government that was for the people. The majority of people. Not to make a rule for every exception, to protect every single person, but to protect what is best for everybody. If we stopped doing things, made it illegal, mitigated all the risks in everything that you could do that you could possibly die doing; what could you do? Live in a plastic bubble that never moved.
So how do you reverse the flux? How do you get the water back in the tank, stop the flush. Society is headed for a terrible demise in this country if we don't start doing something now. Eliminate the extremists on both the left and the right could considerably help. The tea party'ers, the Koran burners, the soccer moms, and liberals? As nice as it would be to Lord of the Flies them onto an island, we have to use more ethical means of extermination. Make the voice of the many what it should always be. Loud. Call shotgun, and driver too. Get out of the backseat and be heard. We let the voice of the few out ring the voice of the many.
It's time to start singing.
The NIA'S and How Sweet Their Sound/Beauty
I like sunrises better than sunsets. However I like the night better than the day, just not the segway to reach it. Mornings have become my new thing, and although I generally have to struggle to shake the caked over not ready eyes and limbs and mind, I enjoy that crisp feel of a brand new day. The sun starting to shine, but not letting it's rays effect me or anything else in the world. Untouched and pure.
Summer is coming to an end, and I could've thought it was worse in Iraq last year, but can only think of how seemingly miserable this one was. With the sweat of the south and it's thick air and putrid humidity, it led plenty to be desired. Even the occasional escape to the beach was met by all too warm of water and a salty taste that couldn't even be washed out by shower. I'm looking forward to this fall and all that it holds. Never having seasons for the first 20 years of my life has made me really appreciate the ones I now live through.
Carolina is a beautiful state, and most of the songs must have been written in it's gentle falls and weeks days or even hours after the poets of our time could have forgotten of the misery that her summer's had brought. Carolina must be a woman, so enchanting and remarkable, and yet so unforgiving and malice. The period is over and she's taken her chill pill.
I thought that Carolina and California songs could only be convenience most of the time, mainly because they are very easy to write into a song. But their majesty certainly has played a bigger role than pure pitch and hook. The little of the United States I've lived in, the length of time, my experience isn't broad, but it's focused and rewarding. I've figured out one thing that's for sure, for real. A truth to my life that finally is back in black and white and has lost it's shades of gray. I will live where the weather is temperate. Less extremes. More sweaters, hoodies and facial hair.
Summer is coming to an end, and I could've thought it was worse in Iraq last year, but can only think of how seemingly miserable this one was. With the sweat of the south and it's thick air and putrid humidity, it led plenty to be desired. Even the occasional escape to the beach was met by all too warm of water and a salty taste that couldn't even be washed out by shower. I'm looking forward to this fall and all that it holds. Never having seasons for the first 20 years of my life has made me really appreciate the ones I now live through.
Carolina is a beautiful state, and most of the songs must have been written in it's gentle falls and weeks days or even hours after the poets of our time could have forgotten of the misery that her summer's had brought. Carolina must be a woman, so enchanting and remarkable, and yet so unforgiving and malice. The period is over and she's taken her chill pill.
I thought that Carolina and California songs could only be convenience most of the time, mainly because they are very easy to write into a song. But their majesty certainly has played a bigger role than pure pitch and hook. The little of the United States I've lived in, the length of time, my experience isn't broad, but it's focused and rewarding. I've figured out one thing that's for sure, for real. A truth to my life that finally is back in black and white and has lost it's shades of gray. I will live where the weather is temperate. Less extremes. More sweaters, hoodies and facial hair.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday Perspective
I like Sunday mornings better than Sunday afternoons. There is something refreshing about those Sunday mornings. It's a daisy, but quicker to wilt. That afternoon sunlight, it brings the poor connotations. An in between of my two favorite times.
I've been going through some changes, and perspective is the hardest. I've always been positive, and with so much always happening in my life, sometimes I have to wait till it's over to give a pat on the back and feel the pride of accomplishment when all is said and done. I focus too much on the moment and sometimes to much on the future. That balance isn't as blind as justice and sometimes I wish it were.
I'd never felt some emotions. That's changing rapidly and I try and count it as learning. I haven't been working hard enough in to many locations in my life. For a chronic self-proclaimed self-improver this leaves a dirty taste in my mouth. It took awhile, but I've sucked the blood up from the proverbial cut on the lip and the tears have dried on the cheeks. I'm ready to live, and not for the wrong reasons, but all the right ones.
I miss the west coast, but not necessarily home. I know it would be a year and a half away but I'm not ready to move back home. My dreams always change, but stay the same. I know I want to see more of the world, but I'm undecided on which part to see. It's all perspective. It would be easier if we could just think it and it would change. Could change. I feel I'm wanted, just not always from who I want that emote to come from.
I look forward to the fall. It's not the spring but it's still a new beginning. The leaves changing are inspiring. The end of a cycle, the end of a phase, the death of what was. It's grief for loss, but excitement of new. It's all life. Circular. The passing of my Uncle was the toughest thing that has ever happened to me. I can take plenty from his life. Work hard to be as giving, as caring as he was. Impact others lives as he impacted mine. All for the best.
That's the falling of leaves. Changing and dying. Falling to the ground, but enriching the soil. Bringing the right minerals for the new life of the ground. The cold always passes over, and the new always takes something from the old. It's for the better, and sadly through the worst. It's perspective. It's taking the good from things. Taking the best of those you've loved and lost and letting them live through your actions. Create their immortality. Pass on their impact on you to the world.
Sunday afternoons are now red. Far from green, but still beautiful. They have promise of the morning and the history of the past. The time moves on, and I take all I can from it. Look forward towards tomorrow and everything Sunday afternoon has imparted on me.
I live for me, with them in mind, and your beauty in my heart.
I've been going through some changes, and perspective is the hardest. I've always been positive, and with so much always happening in my life, sometimes I have to wait till it's over to give a pat on the back and feel the pride of accomplishment when all is said and done. I focus too much on the moment and sometimes to much on the future. That balance isn't as blind as justice and sometimes I wish it were.
I'd never felt some emotions. That's changing rapidly and I try and count it as learning. I haven't been working hard enough in to many locations in my life. For a chronic self-proclaimed self-improver this leaves a dirty taste in my mouth. It took awhile, but I've sucked the blood up from the proverbial cut on the lip and the tears have dried on the cheeks. I'm ready to live, and not for the wrong reasons, but all the right ones.
I miss the west coast, but not necessarily home. I know it would be a year and a half away but I'm not ready to move back home. My dreams always change, but stay the same. I know I want to see more of the world, but I'm undecided on which part to see. It's all perspective. It would be easier if we could just think it and it would change. Could change. I feel I'm wanted, just not always from who I want that emote to come from.
I look forward to the fall. It's not the spring but it's still a new beginning. The leaves changing are inspiring. The end of a cycle, the end of a phase, the death of what was. It's grief for loss, but excitement of new. It's all life. Circular. The passing of my Uncle was the toughest thing that has ever happened to me. I can take plenty from his life. Work hard to be as giving, as caring as he was. Impact others lives as he impacted mine. All for the best.
That's the falling of leaves. Changing and dying. Falling to the ground, but enriching the soil. Bringing the right minerals for the new life of the ground. The cold always passes over, and the new always takes something from the old. It's for the better, and sadly through the worst. It's perspective. It's taking the good from things. Taking the best of those you've loved and lost and letting them live through your actions. Create their immortality. Pass on their impact on you to the world.
Sunday afternoons are now red. Far from green, but still beautiful. They have promise of the morning and the history of the past. The time moves on, and I take all I can from it. Look forward towards tomorrow and everything Sunday afternoon has imparted on me.
I live for me, with them in mind, and your beauty in my heart.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Temptress
I have four pairs of jeans, but only ever wear two. I always try and relax with something smooth and jazzy, but end up playing the same soundtrack over and over to fall asleep. The chemical corp. lied to you all, or most likely just me. I make love to the long necked golden brown woman, and she helps me forget. She lays me down.
I try not to depend on her always for the help, but she comes in so many dresses, it's hard to resist my nightly temptress. All my friends love her, and she loves them too. The song repeats, or it all runs together and I'm not sure if I feel it anymore. With my mind she runs, and maybe I don't feel. It's consumed me, or I it, and it speaks for me, and with me. Another kiss on the lips and I'm closer to Valhalla, but with a little more peace.
I'll miss a week, or the next two from the caress. My mind will wander and wake, create and destroy. My fingers not working alone, but assist all together. Not striking or stroking the right keys. The wrong place for them to work, but all the right reasons to. I miss her during sleepless nights, but know she awaits, cold and pure. Her texture like sun.
Throughout the night, there's no need to fight. I've never had a frown with Ms. golden brown.
I try not to depend on her always for the help, but she comes in so many dresses, it's hard to resist my nightly temptress. All my friends love her, and she loves them too. The song repeats, or it all runs together and I'm not sure if I feel it anymore. With my mind she runs, and maybe I don't feel. It's consumed me, or I it, and it speaks for me, and with me. Another kiss on the lips and I'm closer to Valhalla, but with a little more peace.
I'll miss a week, or the next two from the caress. My mind will wander and wake, create and destroy. My fingers not working alone, but assist all together. Not striking or stroking the right keys. The wrong place for them to work, but all the right reasons to. I miss her during sleepless nights, but know she awaits, cold and pure. Her texture like sun.
Throughout the night, there's no need to fight. I've never had a frown with Ms. golden brown.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Royal Thoughts
I've thought of a million and one ways to write this blog. I still haven't found the right way, and perhaps that's due to being a little rusty. My first blog in a long time, and certainly not only warranted, but desperately needed. I have no outlet right now. My girlfriend I wish could understand what I would like to tell her, and close friends I who can relate... well sometimes it's to be understood and get the nod of "I know how you feel."- however this is for me.
You don't have to read this, and if you do my pride, my ego, my care is all gone. Taken, sucked out over the last three years of my life. I sit here, drinking a whiskey and 7up, hoping that it can help to numb the numb. Pain is gone and I hope it to return. I sit here in my cell block crossing more and more off of the list of happiness and freedoms that I look forward to, and realizing that I'm not me, and you're not you. I thought that being back for almost half a year I would still be in good spirits. Instead, I'm lying to myself, and to you all. I'm not happy, especially with who I am.
I try and blame it on myself and get a rise of motivation to change, but more and more that becomes impossible. I sit and think, and drink and realize more and more that it's not me. It's not me who's made my life extremely miserable. It's not me who's taken all the fun out of anything and everything I do. It's the constant crash of the Army wave on my shore, never allowing a re gripping of my soil and washing me further and further out into the sea. The sea of despair and utter hopelessness. I try and stay optimistic, but optimism turns quickly and unconsciously towards ignorance.
How long has it been since I've truly been happy? Not with relationships that have nothing to do with work, or in the so called 'honey-moon' of redeployment? A year of bullshit looking back had one thing going for it above this half a year in garrison. The prospect of dying. I know that sounds a little odd, but it gave you something worth living for. Life. With all the bullshit and the politics and the stupidity in Iraq at least we had our lives to look forward to. But this place, Fort Bragg, in the time and now, no threat of roadside bombs or snipers. What does it hold? What promise does it have? What wind can it blow into my sails and the other thousand miserable folks who endeavor the insufferable loins of this place? It holds nothing.
Firstly, the time taken away is constant. Enough time is devoted to work, that even if it were given to the highest maintenance wife, she would be sick of it. Early calls, and late nights only to be interrupted by the two precious days that are supposed to be called a weekend. Training and training and even more late work, and 24 hour duties and 3 am wake up calls, and last minute Saturday training or work, and this and that, and everything under your hat. It gets to a point that you get back to your 8x16 room and wonder if prison wouldn't be better- or at least as good as this.
The beer and the booze of Friday and Saturday nights doesn't seem to put a dent into the gut wrenching feelings that Sunday morning hangovers bring as you realize that it's your last day. Last day before the work week. Monday mornings are even worse and they come with anxiety attacks and sometimes vomit. You look around at everyone else coming in at the grueling morning hours, and they aren't just tired, they're miserable too. You try and just tell yourself that you're projecting, but you get to talking and no one is happy. No one wants to be here. No one wants to jump into the grinder everyday to get turned up and chucked out with not so much as even a thanks at the end of the day. We just get to hear the "I Love Me" speeches and the word Nigger inappropriately stated once or twice at 7pm on Friday evenings and then are expected not to drive drunk, or jump out of a fourth story window. Don't say I told you so when the next big shooting in America happens in a little place called 2 P.
I sit, drink and think-therapeutic. There was a time in my life that even though the work week was tough, even though it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, I had hope. Something to look forward to. I had time away from this place. I had people I looked forward to seeing, even at work. I had pride in what I did, and certainly what those around me did. I could play the game, and get through a work day, drink a beer and have some laughs. I haven't laughed in a long time. Smiling is even more beyond reach. Pleasure has evaporated under the Army heat lamp. I'm not the only one affected. Not the only one burned out and hung up to dry. Am I more miserable than anyone else? Probably not. Has it put undue strain on my relationships inside and outside of work? Of course. The problem isn't recognizing their is a problem. The problem isn't even being able to recognize a solution-there is one. The problem is.... I'm writing to you
You don't have to read this, and if you do my pride, my ego, my care is all gone. Taken, sucked out over the last three years of my life. I sit here, drinking a whiskey and 7up, hoping that it can help to numb the numb. Pain is gone and I hope it to return. I sit here in my cell block crossing more and more off of the list of happiness and freedoms that I look forward to, and realizing that I'm not me, and you're not you. I thought that being back for almost half a year I would still be in good spirits. Instead, I'm lying to myself, and to you all. I'm not happy, especially with who I am.
I try and blame it on myself and get a rise of motivation to change, but more and more that becomes impossible. I sit and think, and drink and realize more and more that it's not me. It's not me who's made my life extremely miserable. It's not me who's taken all the fun out of anything and everything I do. It's the constant crash of the Army wave on my shore, never allowing a re gripping of my soil and washing me further and further out into the sea. The sea of despair and utter hopelessness. I try and stay optimistic, but optimism turns quickly and unconsciously towards ignorance.
How long has it been since I've truly been happy? Not with relationships that have nothing to do with work, or in the so called 'honey-moon' of redeployment? A year of bullshit looking back had one thing going for it above this half a year in garrison. The prospect of dying. I know that sounds a little odd, but it gave you something worth living for. Life. With all the bullshit and the politics and the stupidity in Iraq at least we had our lives to look forward to. But this place, Fort Bragg, in the time and now, no threat of roadside bombs or snipers. What does it hold? What promise does it have? What wind can it blow into my sails and the other thousand miserable folks who endeavor the insufferable loins of this place? It holds nothing.
Firstly, the time taken away is constant. Enough time is devoted to work, that even if it were given to the highest maintenance wife, she would be sick of it. Early calls, and late nights only to be interrupted by the two precious days that are supposed to be called a weekend. Training and training and even more late work, and 24 hour duties and 3 am wake up calls, and last minute Saturday training or work, and this and that, and everything under your hat. It gets to a point that you get back to your 8x16 room and wonder if prison wouldn't be better- or at least as good as this.
The beer and the booze of Friday and Saturday nights doesn't seem to put a dent into the gut wrenching feelings that Sunday morning hangovers bring as you realize that it's your last day. Last day before the work week. Monday mornings are even worse and they come with anxiety attacks and sometimes vomit. You look around at everyone else coming in at the grueling morning hours, and they aren't just tired, they're miserable too. You try and just tell yourself that you're projecting, but you get to talking and no one is happy. No one wants to be here. No one wants to jump into the grinder everyday to get turned up and chucked out with not so much as even a thanks at the end of the day. We just get to hear the "I Love Me" speeches and the word Nigger inappropriately stated once or twice at 7pm on Friday evenings and then are expected not to drive drunk, or jump out of a fourth story window. Don't say I told you so when the next big shooting in America happens in a little place called 2 P.
I sit, drink and think-therapeutic. There was a time in my life that even though the work week was tough, even though it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, I had hope. Something to look forward to. I had time away from this place. I had people I looked forward to seeing, even at work. I had pride in what I did, and certainly what those around me did. I could play the game, and get through a work day, drink a beer and have some laughs. I haven't laughed in a long time. Smiling is even more beyond reach. Pleasure has evaporated under the Army heat lamp. I'm not the only one affected. Not the only one burned out and hung up to dry. Am I more miserable than anyone else? Probably not. Has it put undue strain on my relationships inside and outside of work? Of course. The problem isn't recognizing their is a problem. The problem isn't even being able to recognize a solution-there is one. The problem is.... I'm writing to you
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Back On The Warpath...
I wake up and go to work before 6 am every morning. Though I don't need to be there till 6:30 and even that is debatable. I live with those I work with, and the 2 minute walk is good on the gas tank. I run, do sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups everyday, rain or shine, hot or cold. We play the 'game' of tough guy, and dawn the t-shirts and shorts in freezing weather. We get the mental torture that might be faced in any other job, but only slightly worse and for a long period of time. We do a lot for the little pay we make, and even that is stolen away from us with everyone pocket picking government program. We jump from planes, stand in formation, clean the already cleaned, and wait for the word endlessly. We complain, but for good measure. We always have the weekends to look forward to. We look forward to the promises. Made to be broken in most cases. Strike that, all cases.
Yet another day rolls along here in 2 Panther, the worlds greatest battalion of paratroopers. It might have been this way long ago. When words like honor and integrity still meant something. Now it's an institute of the selfish and the greedy. Pimps and politicians with nothing more than to gambit the mental psychy of those who 'have to' follow them. The wicked men who show hope to those already suffering under their whips. They shade the light of hope whenever it seems to be brightest. And without remorse.
Saturday there is going to be a memorial service for our fallen comrades in Iraq. A day, time, I would without question give up. They are owed it. Especially from those who are responsible. Z. War is full of hardships, and death is one of them. Harder to digest when it shouldn't have happened, or didn't have to happen. But I don't think I could point to a war exempt from this small factotum. We owe Bauer and Davis this time. I will give it to them. But the manner in which I'm being 'asked' or 'told' to go on with the days, the money donations, and the possible thievery, leads me to think SCAM.
It seems everyday there is a something you can buy to help make a donation to this wonderful cause. Even though no one will tell you that buying such things will be a donation, we came to learn a few weeks after having all of these items shoved down our throats, that the proceeds were supposedly going to a good cause. The families of the lost 2 Panther brethren. It only came up, after a battalion wide meeting, where the Z-man informed us that people had been calling the Inspector General about him (100 plus calls). He told us, in a seeming last ditch effort that the profits were going to the Gold Star families, as well as cutting down the costs of our ticket to the Battalion Ball. A non-mandatory function that is being made mandatory. Not everyone is so enthralled with the cohesion within this unit, and hopefully the stink about going was a bright enough sign to those above.
The $15 dollar t-shirt, $35 dollar deployment poster, $20 dollar ball ticket, and the many small donation-raffle-tickets made mandatory or else no one gets off work were all bought up, and if I could genuinely believe that the man at the top who I've come to known so well as a liar actually cared at all for these people this money is supposedly going to help; I could feel better about spending the dough. But I can't, and no one else can. He's the same empty promiser that we've had the last two years. Self absorbed and even more selfish than before. His preaches about pushing rocks with blocking and tackling, and leading from the front we've all seen as the propaganda that any good prom queen would use. He continues to out do himself even as his term comes to close with this place.
Like I said before, I have no problem with giving up my time to say one last goodbye to a friend, a brother and a hell of a non-commissioned officer. I don't even have a problem with it being on a Saturday. And if I had believed from the get-go that I still was going to come into work on Monday, I would've been fine with that too. But here's where the lying, the shimmer of hope, and the quenching of the fire all comes into play. But in the 'put that on your youtube' speech that was supposed to the minds of the anti-ballers, a promise was made. That because our 'off' time is valuable- Monday would be a day off. Half a week later, and this Z-guy has broken yet another promise. Something I definitely would like to put on youtube.
What if during the span of your life, at work, or at home, the second you got happy. The second a smile ripped across your face, and you could laugh not just because of the irony; What if there was someone there to pull your hair and kick you in the nuts. Tell you your dog died. Someone who was there to make you feel like shit, and force regret into your life. Knock you on your knees and force you to submit.
Some call that hell... We just call it the eighty-deuce
Yet another day rolls along here in 2 Panther, the worlds greatest battalion of paratroopers. It might have been this way long ago. When words like honor and integrity still meant something. Now it's an institute of the selfish and the greedy. Pimps and politicians with nothing more than to gambit the mental psychy of those who 'have to' follow them. The wicked men who show hope to those already suffering under their whips. They shade the light of hope whenever it seems to be brightest. And without remorse.
Saturday there is going to be a memorial service for our fallen comrades in Iraq. A day, time, I would without question give up. They are owed it. Especially from those who are responsible. Z. War is full of hardships, and death is one of them. Harder to digest when it shouldn't have happened, or didn't have to happen. But I don't think I could point to a war exempt from this small factotum. We owe Bauer and Davis this time. I will give it to them. But the manner in which I'm being 'asked' or 'told' to go on with the days, the money donations, and the possible thievery, leads me to think SCAM.
It seems everyday there is a something you can buy to help make a donation to this wonderful cause. Even though no one will tell you that buying such things will be a donation, we came to learn a few weeks after having all of these items shoved down our throats, that the proceeds were supposedly going to a good cause. The families of the lost 2 Panther brethren. It only came up, after a battalion wide meeting, where the Z-man informed us that people had been calling the Inspector General about him (100 plus calls). He told us, in a seeming last ditch effort that the profits were going to the Gold Star families, as well as cutting down the costs of our ticket to the Battalion Ball. A non-mandatory function that is being made mandatory. Not everyone is so enthralled with the cohesion within this unit, and hopefully the stink about going was a bright enough sign to those above.
The $15 dollar t-shirt, $35 dollar deployment poster, $20 dollar ball ticket, and the many small donation-raffle-tickets made mandatory or else no one gets off work were all bought up, and if I could genuinely believe that the man at the top who I've come to known so well as a liar actually cared at all for these people this money is supposedly going to help; I could feel better about spending the dough. But I can't, and no one else can. He's the same empty promiser that we've had the last two years. Self absorbed and even more selfish than before. His preaches about pushing rocks with blocking and tackling, and leading from the front we've all seen as the propaganda that any good prom queen would use. He continues to out do himself even as his term comes to close with this place.
Like I said before, I have no problem with giving up my time to say one last goodbye to a friend, a brother and a hell of a non-commissioned officer. I don't even have a problem with it being on a Saturday. And if I had believed from the get-go that I still was going to come into work on Monday, I would've been fine with that too. But here's where the lying, the shimmer of hope, and the quenching of the fire all comes into play. But in the 'put that on your youtube' speech that was supposed to the minds of the anti-ballers, a promise was made. That because our 'off' time is valuable- Monday would be a day off. Half a week later, and this Z-guy has broken yet another promise. Something I definitely would like to put on youtube.
What if during the span of your life, at work, or at home, the second you got happy. The second a smile ripped across your face, and you could laugh not just because of the irony; What if there was someone there to pull your hair and kick you in the nuts. Tell you your dog died. Someone who was there to make you feel like shit, and force regret into your life. Knock you on your knees and force you to submit.
Some call that hell... We just call it the eighty-deuce
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